


The Warmth Found by the Campfire

by AsunderWolf



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: "Love-Making", Baldur’s Gate Lore, Beta Read, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Don’t copy to another site, Drow, Dungeons & Dragons Game Mechanics, Erotica, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Music in the Background, Mutual Pinning, Past Relationship(s), Sex, Sex Magic, Slow Burn, Sound Effects, Trust Issues, Video Game Mechanics, nerds falling in love, wizard love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsunderWolf/pseuds/AsunderWolf
Summary: Summing up the plot here makes no sense, it is the same one in the game. Here I present additional scenes or variations of the ones we saw (Early Access), in a humble attempt to display how Gale’s romance could be developed in a more nerdy and less cheesy [yet romantic] way. There is an emphasis on the art of conversation, I must warn you.[Fill based fic focused on Gale and Chardry, canon compliant with slight variations, but not repeating scenes of the game unless they have been changed and tackled in different ways. Nobody wants to read the exact same scene they saw in-game. It says "slow burn" but it is as slow as the tadpole allows it, though. Which is not so slow for my taste, indeed. This fic follows Forgotten Realms lore and Baldur’s Gate 3 (EA) lore. So, it’s Larian, Gods protect us from future inconsistencies.]
Relationships: Don’t copy to another site - Relationship, Gale (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s), Gale (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Gale/Chardry, Gale/Main Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, I want to thank  [ Bigbraincel  ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbraincel/profile) for their beautiful work in betareading the first chapters of this fic. Thank you so much for this! Second, I also want to deeply thank  **Shiba** for her wonderful work in betareading the whole fic. Thank you soooo much.
> 
> Now, related to this fic and the general lore:
> 
> It annoys me a lot that we don’t know where most of our companions were when the Nautiloid captured them (we know Astarion was in Baldur’s Gate, Shadowheart on her way towards it. It’s not clear where the rest of the companions were. Was Gale captured in Waterdeep? Does this mean that the main cities of Faerûn were attacked too? We don’t know yet.) For this reason I headcanoned that Chardry, who lives in a town outside Neverwinter, visited the city when the Nautiloid attacked. Therefore, I'm assuming many important cities were attacked by the Nautiloid.
> 
> Small details related to Faerûn Drows that apply to Chardry: Male drows are smaller than female ones. Drows in general have a natural affinity to magic. Depending on the source, they may have long canines.
> 
> The red eyes related to the Lolth-sworn concept is, apparently, something created for BG3 by Larian. It can be interpreted in different ways. I assume bright red eyes are active Lolthsworn drows. Red wine eyes belong to drows born in Lolth-sworn families but they are not personally worshipping Lolth or they simply escaped from the Underdark. Lolth has a degree of control over all these drows, whether they want it or not. Half-drows and Drows born on the surface have no way to inherit red eyes. This detail is known for everyone in Faerûn, including common folks. This is a detail of importance in the way the drow character interacts with the rest of the world in this story. 
> 
> Also, trance to me is not performed in a lotus position. Instead, it’s simply laying on the back with a perfect alignment of the spine, head, and limbs. An elf can still be seen in trance because the position is perfectly straight. While sleeping, the elf moves along and looks more relaxed. I do this variation because I think the body has to rest whether the elf trances or sleeps, and that goal is better acquired in a laid position. Principle of minimum energy of any system.

He stepped aside, hoping to avoid the effect of the smoke bomb that hit his leg, but did not keep his hopes high; after all, they were not fighting in the open. On the contrary, they were buried many meters underground, in the middle of a dusty, mouldy, forgotten temple. 

The looters threw another smoke bomb, and its effect was instant. Still in the middle of the fight, Chardry felt that familiar pressure in his chest, and the low soft wheeze taking over his breathing. Fear began to rise, and with it, he could not keep the concentration of the witch bolt he was sustaining. First came the evaporation of the spell, then the weakness in his legs which made it harder to stand on his feet.

One of the looters noticed his state, and took immediate advantage of the situation without thinking twice.

A straight arrow pierced Chardry’s arm and he fell on the ground, his staff rolling away from him. He only managed to sit on the ground and gather as much air as his lungs allowed him to. With misty steps, Wyll appeared behind the archers and focused on the one that had just wounded Chardry. Two swings of his rapier were enough to put him down. On the other side, after casting mage armour on himself, Gale stood before the fallen wizard and became his temporary shield. Shadowheart, ignoring all of them, burned some looters in the distance with dark flames of fire.

By then, Chardry was left out of the combat, too focused on breathing while the tension in his chest kept building up. He had to trust in his companions to deal with the encounter. He was useless now. 

When the last looter fell on the ground, Shadowheart approached him, annoyance souring her face. She touched Chardry’s arm, healing the arrow wound, but the wheezing did not improve. She frowned. 

“What’s happening, lad?” Gale asked. Chardry only shook his head in response, too focused on breathing. 

Gale had seen this before in his youth. A fellow from the academy in Waterdeep had the same ailment. Cold weather or dusty wind would leave him speechless on the ground, while inhaling and exhaling loudly. Back then, their teacher cast a swirling gust of wind in his palm and placed it close to the student. It was not any common wind, but a particular one which manifested a soft blue glow around the hand. At that time he thought it was a standard icy wind spell, but days later, he learnt it was special: rich oxygenated wind. A proper spell of scholars focused on healing arts. Standard wizards did not know about it. But then again, he was not standard. Gale frowned at the sight of his own hand and, pulling just some bits of the Weave, cast what he remembered from that spell. In the blink of an eye, his palm was wrapped in a turbulent yet small blue whirl. 

“Breathe close to this.” Gale said, as his hand reached for Chardry’s face. 

Growing desperate by the lack of proper air, Chardry did not question the offer. He grabbed Gale’s wrist and dragged the offered palm close to his nose. Minutes crawled by until Chardry's gasps for air became gulping breaths, then, finally, slowing to a more steady rhythm.

“Thank you.” Chardry finally whispered, his chest still heavy. 

“This is a serious hindrance.” Shadowheart said. “You can’t have those in the middle of the battle. It gives advantage to our enemies.”

“I know. I didn’t choose to have them, you know. Blame the Mind Flayers, they forgot to give my medicines back when the Nautiloud _landed_.” Chardry snapped back. He coughed a couple of times and finally got up, frowning. This condition always frustrated him deeply. 

This could have been prevented had he had his potions. That custom blend made by that well-known moon elven alchemist in Neverwinter had kept his condition in check for decades now. But the attack on the city had changed that. If only he had delayed his visit to Neverwinter a bit longer.

He thought for a moment about his friend, wondering if he had survived the attack or had become another victim to the Mind Flayers as well. A wave of optimism made him nod to himself. His friend must have survived. After all, he had survived the Shadow War(*); surviving a city attacked by a single Nautiloid seemed trivial at this point. However, Chardry could not shake off the fear that such an image inspired him. 

The sound of a pile of books falling on the ground violently dragged Chardry back to reality. Wyll was moving his arms in the air, trying to dissipate the thick cloud of dust that the accident raised. The rest of the companions were in a corner, inspecting every cabinet, paint, or suspicious element. 

Shadowheart walked close to Gale, who was observing a curious metallic protuberance on the wall. She looked back, spotting the drow in the distance and spoke in a low voice, “Next time, cast some poison into him.”

“Pardon me?”

“We have enough troubles with our tadpoles. We can’t deal with extra liabilities now.”

“I’m not going to murder the fellow just for the inconvenience. Besides, he is a wizard. We are the best chances you have to solve a difficult problem.”

Shadowheart twisted the corner of her mouth ever so slightly, and turned over her heels, leaving Gale to inspect the contraption. 

* * *

Several hours had passed by and they still could not find a way to enter to the deepest level of the ruins. Giving up, Chardry examined the shelves in the room in an attempt to find something of interest after so much frustration. Old ruins tended to be looted, so finding anything of value was a waste of time. However, books were usually left untouched. Unless you were an expert, there was never good profit out of them. And looters were not exactly the most educated fellows that could distinguish a book from another. Chardry knew it all too well… he had lost count of how many times he swindled robbers that sold him priceless books for a couple of gold coins. They say ignorance is a bliss. _So stupid_.

Gale joined him in investigating the pile of fallen books, dust motes dancing in the sparse light of the temple. He picked one, tracing his hand on the cover that had clearly seen better days. It was the famous _Drow Compendium_ by the scholar Alsidius Kleint: a common book in most city libraries across all of Faerûn, a compilation boasting to be the most complete one that could be found on the subject of Drow society and Drow physiology. The human author had earned the trust of the drows thanks to his previous works in capturing the essence of the Deep Gnome and Duergar culture , as such they allowed him to experience the core of Menzoberranzan life over the course of several years. Although it was not always peaceful, coexistence with the drows was possible. At least, for a short while. True, the scholar was never seen again, but somehow, he managed to publish the first volume of the Compendium. Due to the way it was presented in the prologue, it was clear that the book was planned to be longer, however the sudden disappearance of the scholar changed some plans.

Gale always knew about the existence of this book. It was, after all, a common volume. However, he had never felt compelled to read it. Drows were rare creatures on the surface, and he had never encountered one personally. Only on counted occasions he met some half-drows, more tortured creatures than the regular half breed of common elves. 

“That book.” 

Gale heard the words coming from behind and looked over his shoulder. Chardry was observing the worn-out cover, the corner of his mouth was down as if he had tasted a rotten apple. 

Gale turned on his heels, the book still in his hand. “Is it reliable?”

“How would I know?” He shrugged.

Chardry’s words made Gale frown, confused. If a drow was saying that, it was probably not a good reference. Or maybe, Chardry was a half breed, as Gale had been suspecting ever since they met. Drows tended to be extremely more aggressive than him. 

“That book only brought me problems.” Chardry added.

“Then I assume it is _not_ reliable.”

Chardry shrugged again and left the room after putting two burnt books in his bag. 

Once alone, Gale looked again at the worn-out book in his hands. Had Chardry said nothing about it, he would probably have abandoned this book where he found it. Now, after that comment, skimming the text did not feel enough. His curiosity was itching in the back of his head. Now, he _needed_ to read this book and understand what was exactly the source of inaccuracies in it. No more debate. In a simple movement, he put the book in his own bag. A read for their time off at camp.

* * *

Gale arranged his tent as much as he could. Sleeping in this squalor, with only a thin bedroll to put a barrier between the creatures of the earth and his own persona, had proven insufficient. Especially when the previous morning he awoke surrounded by worms, writhing on his bedroll, looking for a rich moisture that the soil was not giving them. He was determined not to repeat the disgusting experience. He already had enough problems with one worm in his head. _No more uninvited passengers into his body, please_.

Dragging along the camp a large wooden crate, he put it into his tent and managed to arrange it into a comfortable bed by placing his bedroll inside. It was not perfect, but at least he would be free of that cold moist emanating from the ground, not dampening the bedroll all the way to his clothes and inviting these bugs to crawl onto him. The wood would absorb enough humidity, and hopefully, he would sleep as if he were in a real bed. At least he wanted to believe so. 

Once finished, he noticed that the tent now seemed smaller, barely covering the box. The question was how was he going to enter without collapsing the tent itself as well… but that was for later. For now, his main worry had been dealt with. 

Satisfied with his work, he looked around at his companions. Shadowheart was by the edge of the river, watching something in her hands that Gale could not distinguish in that darkness. Astarion was gazing at the sky, laying on a faraway stone by the waterfall. Wyll had gone into his tent early. Lae’zel was nowhere to be found. She was probably training in the forest, as usual. And Chardry was by the camp… lost in his notebook, moving his carbonite with fast movements. Maybe practising glyphs. 

A gust of disappointment struck Gale. Each and every one of them was isolated, lost in their own minds. Denying themselves the comfort that gathering around the fire could give. They were simply ignoring the fear and the frustration that were squeezing their chests. 

Determined not to be one of them—but also unable to restrain his curiosity—Gale approached the drow, using the opportunity to glimpse what caught Chardry’s attention with such rapture. He bet it was some arcane equation or complex glyphs. But it was… a sketch. A simple sketch of something that looked like a forest. Gale did not have much time to see the details, as those red eyes immediately raised up and the notebook was bent to be subtly concealed. 

Gale smiled. “Would you mind sharing a friendly moment on a lonely night?” 

The initial mistrust shifted to a neutral amiability. “Be my honoured guest. You can take the most exquisite bedroll here.” Chardry answered, faking the most obnoxious and high class accent he could manage. The bedroll he was pointing at was, at least, the cleanest.

Gale chuckled, sitting a few feet away from him. He could not help but make his interest obvious in whatever Chardry was drawing. “Are you an artist?”

“No. I’m just… I dabble.”

“May I?” Gale pointed out the notebook. 

An instant of hesitation made Chardry push his drawing ever so slightly against his chest, observing Gale. His eyes were akin to a badly beaten dog that had learnt not to trust in gentleness. It lasted only a moment, but it was enough for Gale to perceive it. Those drawings meant more than casual doodling. 

“Promise me you won’t laugh.” 

“Please, I have a broad taste in art. And I understand what an amateur approach means.” 

“Very well.” Chardry conceded and offered his notebook. 

Gale was surprised with the sketch he had barely glimpsed a moment ago. It was the image of the forest surrounding the camp, the river close to them, and a beautiful fog emulated with a detailed work of smudging the pencil strokes. To the side of the landscape, there were two figures —barely identifiable. The only clear detail was that they were holding hands. The picture transmitted a deep calmness despite its sketch-like state. 

“This is really well done. The composition, the details in the front, the diffused effect in the back… can I turn the page?” 

Chardry nodded in silence. 

The next drawing Gale found was a close-up of a woman, a human woman, giving a hug to a child. It was a tender, motherly image, filled with nostalgia. The next page was a pair of lovers awakening in a cosy bed, the first sunshine striking over the eyes of the lovers, who did not mind it. They were simply sharing a knowing smile, looking at one another with lovely tenderness. Gale could not help but remain observing this image a bit longer. The warmth and the endearing moment invoked a flickering memory of Mystra. He sighed heavily, forcing himself to break the charm of the drawing on him. 

On the next page, two men were sharing a hug. The expression of their faces made him assume that some great tragedy befell upon them, and the only way to find comfort before so much pain was in that brotherly gesture. A strange piece of art in comparison with the previous ones, but not less beautiful. 

The following pages were all about the same landscape; a hill with many trees, a long path lost into the horizon, and the moon bathing the mountains in the background. But there was a different variation of in on each page. Some have stars, others a flock of birds crossing the sky, or a row of caravans travelling along that path. It was as if this landscape was the biggest project Chardry had been working on, and he had made several versions, while pondering on the one most beautiful. 

Finally, Gale closed the notebook, a bit disappointed when he reached the end. “These are skilful pieces of art. Sketches, but formidable. And you truly just dabble in this?”

Chardry did not say anything. He simply smiled, taking his notebook back and placing it in his bag.

“I really want to see the final work of all of them.” Gale added.

“That’s the problem. I never paint them. They are only sketches. Painting is too complicated. And besides, I don’t have formal education on the matter. Colours make the following steps unaffordable for me.”

“What a pity. They are wonderful. And believe me, I’m not easily impressed by art pieces.”

Chardry curiously looked at him, smirking. He was probably appraising him, trying to see if this was a lie or an honest compliment. After a second, he gave up and looked at the campfire. 

“I miss the art galleries of Waterdeep where every month a new prodigy is discovered. The great theatres filled with the most skilful actors and bards you can find in the Sword Coast. The magnificent and moving concerts of travelling companies that bring a new piece every year. Ah… I miss the city. All this wilderness…. I’m starting to feel the side effects of it. Social skills are getting rusty. Especially around Shadowheart.” Gale muttered his last words. 

“Tell me about it.”

Gale frowned for an instant. “I respect privacy, but… her style falls too out of what’s standard. Yesterday I asked her about the weather, and the conversation ended up making me feel guilty about trying to know how she was enjoying the chilly night.”

“You are flirting with her too much for her own taste.”

“Flirting? Me? Unthinkable. I’m pretty clear about my intentions when I have them.”

After a chuckle, Chardry looked at Gale, expecting to find his smirk. Instead, he found him honestly confused. If the first comment after meeting a lady was a compliment about her eyes… was it not flirting? It was true that the compliment was a dark one, but a compliment in the end. In any case, Gale’s disconcert made him doubt it. 

After a long sigh, Chardry nodded. His eyes were fixed on the fire once more. “Anyways… it’s indeed hard to talk with her... she makes me nervous.”

The silence was sustained for a moment, as Gale raised an eyebrow, observing Chardry’s profile in a vain attempt to perceive something more in his words. “Nervous?” He insisted. 

“Everything about her is secret. Nothing good comes from that.” 

“I’m curious to listen to your conclusions.” Gale dared. 

“Conclusions? Such a big word that doesn’t apply here. No, it’s just fears. People with many secrets never hide pleasant surprises.”

With a slight tension in his back, Gale ran his fingers along his own hair, nodding in silence. He could not argue with that. It was better not to go in that direction. “Fear you say. That makes me think of our friend Lae’zael. She is certainly not a people person.” He added casually. “We could assassinate some goblins with the sharpness of her words. She has such visceral contempt for … well, everyone.”

“Astarion is what you are looking for, I daresay.”

“Please. A vampire that almost killed you the other night? He knows how to speak; I’ll give him that. But it’s always difficult to see the meaning of his words.”

“Don’t blame him. Nature is not something you can restrain forever. He was weak the other night. And he promised not to do it again.”

“Now I can rest assured.” Gale’s words were filled with sarcasm. “And do you believe him…?” 

“He didn’t do it again, did he?”

“Still, I will keep an eye on him. I question the wisdom of your decision to let him stay. But... I’ll respect it nevertheless, just don’t ask me to trust him. Maybe you don’t know, but Waterdeep once had a Lord who was a vampire. The man abused his power over the city, using it as a personal hunting ground. Nasty business.”

“The Baron of Blood.” Chardry said immediately.

 _Look at that_. The man was indeed educated beyond… well, beyond his non-artistic profession, whatever it was. “Ah, I see you know history.” Gale’s eyes brightened with a particular warm glint. Something in between pride and satisfaction. “Of course, the lord used to change his identity after several decades to avoid suspicions. The conflict he raised in the city with his vampire spawns was intense, and lasted long… It was truly a miracle that he was finally removed from that position… or so goes the tale. But the terror he left in the city still prevails after such a long time. No Waterdhevian will remain stoic before a vampire asking for a nibble. You can't trust them, the undead tend to be… temperamental creatures. Vampires, in particular, are slaves to their needs.” 

“Aren’t we all?”

Snapping his head at Chardry, Gale frowned. Of course it was different for other creatures! Or maybe not. The more he dwelled on the concept, the lighter his frown became. He wanted to give a counterargument, but maybe due to the tiredness of the day, he did not find a convincing one. He simply let the silence remain. 

“If you fancy a king of social arts, you may try with your last option: The Blade of Frontiers.” Chardry looked in the direction of Wyll’s tent, seeing part of his torso through the small gap of the entryway that let him peek inside. “Oh, maybe not. He’s sleeping.”

“He is a good lad, Wyll. Although, I feel sometimes that bit of heroism may be a source of troubles in his life, and soon, in ours… but who I am to judge.” He stopped to take a long sigh and smirked at Chardry, “But he is not the last option in this camp. You left _someone_ out of the count, who makes conversations into an art.”

“Oh, more sarcasm. My favourite flavour.”

Gale laughed lightly. It was a sound Chardry had not heard before, a soft raspy laugh tinged with something that he could not define by anything else but... silly benevolence? It felt strange to hear it, but warmed his chest. 

“So, here I am, trying to feel a bit less like a barbarian in this wildness. Let’s get properly acquainted. What can you tell me about yourself that is not about these bloody tadpoles, news of despair, or your non-artistic abilities?” Gale inquired.

“I won’t accept a one-sided interrogation.”

“Interrogation? You've never been to a Waterdhevian cultural gathering, have you? What a pity. But of course, let’s make this entirely fair. That makes things more interesting.” Gale said softly, leaning closer to Chardry. He rested his forearms on his knees, his keen eyes sharp and piercing and entirely focused on Chardry. “I’ve told you already that I hail from Waterdeep, I have a cat, a library, and I enjoy poetry on some moonless nights. That’s a lot of information that now, due to the nature of the rules of the game, should go in the other direction.” 

“Yes.” Chardry’s tone was dry. His own rules had been used against him. 

“So…?” Bare teeth, Gale’s smile brightened, triumphant.

“I’m from nowhere, I have nothing, and I don’t like poetry.”

Gale’s hand immediately reached his own heart and winced. “You wound me. How come a person with artistic skills cannot be moved by the delicate art of the words? Not even reading it? I know writing requires a set of abilities that not everyone has, but not reading it?…I can’t believe it.” Gale shook his head, squinted his eyes, and without a hint of guilt, he examined Chardry in search of something. Something that he found in the moment when he curled his lips in a smirk. “Let me offer you a delicate fragment… something that may be appealing to your tastes…”

“My tastes?” Chardry said, sceptical. What could that man know about _his_ tastes? He shrugged anyways.

Gale cleared his throat, looked at the sky in a gesture of trying to remember the fragment, and began soon afterwards. 

> _“ If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one_
> 
> _Drying in the colour of the evening sun_
> 
> _Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away_
> 
> _But something in our minds will always stay_
> 
> _Perhaps this final act was meant_
> 
> _To clinch a lifetime's argument_
> 
> _That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could_
> 
> _For all those born beneath an angry star_
> 
> _Lest we forget how fragile we are.”[**]_

Chardry remained silent, still appreciating the piece. It was not pompously elaborated, exhausting the reader in an attempt to understand it; it had its own rhythm and sounds, and the topic was not about those boring romantic stories that everyone liked to write. This was, indeed, a decent piece.

“Not bad at all.” He conceded.

“Thank you. I wrote it on a rainy day. Maybe I should work on it a little bit more.”

“Well, in that case, I should correct myself. I like a bit of poetry. Your skill on the matter is… interesting.”

Gale frowned, unsure, “That's an ambiguous word, if ever there was one.”

Both remained a moment longer, looking at the fire, still lost in their memories of the past days, the horrors of the Nautiloid and the lurking doom of the parasite in their heads. It was not much of a comfort, but there was not much to do anyway; they could only aspire to a shallow camaraderie, knowing that others were passing through the same nightmare.

“Well, thank you for a moment of civilisation, and the pieces of art shared. Well done, indeed.” Gale said looking at Chardry’s bag. “But I suppose I will call it a night. I’ll use my new bed for the first time.” He bragged. 

“Your… what?”

“Let me show you.” He said, standing up in an agile movement, and offered his hand to Chardry.

Gale proudly moved the entryway of his tent and showed the crate inside. “If this works, I would recommend you to make your own. We don’t have to sleep like barbarians.”

Chardry looked at him in disbelief. “So, are you going to sleep in a coffin from now on? Should I start calling you vampire?” Chardry teased with a big smile impossible to hide. Long pointy canines were bared in it, and as soon as he noticed Gale’s sight falling on them at the word _vampire_ , he pressed his lips in a thin line, erasing his smile at once.

“Laugh all you want, but I guarantee you no more worms will get into my head. Good night.”

Gale crawled his way into the tent. Trying to fit into the box became more challenging than he expected, and part of his head protruded from the top of the tent. Chardry laughed again as he saw how the man struggled to accommodate himself, and a bit out of pity, helped him to maintain his tent in place while Gale finally found the most comfortable position to sleep. That crate was going to be problematic.

“Your help is much appreciated.”

Chardry heard the last words a bit muffled from the inside of the tent while returning to the campfire. He looked around for a last time, laid straight on his bedroll, and closed his eyes. He also needed to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shadow War** [[canon](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/King_of_Shadows)]: It’s the great battle we saw in Neverwinter 2 against the King of Shadows . The King of Shadows was the former protector of the [Illefarn](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Illefarn)[ empire, ](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/King_of_Shadows)created by merging a human mage with the Weave. The product was a guardian without traces of his previous self. This creature protected the empire even from Netheril. However, when Karsus indirectly killed Mystryl, and magic ceased to exist, the guardian fell with the event. Once Mystra was reborn, the Guardian arose once more, but his might had decayed, becoming weaker. Dragging power from the Shadow Weave to compensate, the guardian was corrupted and turned into the King of Shadows. After a great battle, he was sealed for a time in the Shadow Planes, but by the time of Neverwinter 2, he was set free once more causing the Shadow War.
> 
> [**]: The “poetry” is, in fact, the lyrics of Fragile by Sting.


	2. Chapter 2

While waiting for their breakfast stew to cook, Gale sat close to the fire and opened the Compendium of Drow Society. Despite insinuating that he had no further interest in the book, he ended up keeping it anyway. With the intense brightness of the sun hitting the pages, he skimmed over the text: main cities in the Underdark, some bits of history and how it influenced the power of Drows, the inner political chaos they always lived in, population habits, their physiology, Lolth.

History chapters did not add much information to what he had already learnt over the years in the academy. The political structure, if there existed any to analyse in a society which keeps destroying itself, was too superficial for Gale’s taste. After all, Alsidius Kleint was a great scholar focused on humanoid medicine, not in social intricacies. 

He skipped the many chapters of weak geopolitical studies, and went into the social traditions section. Despite not being new to him, he could not avoid feeling taken aback by the level of cruelty and depravity rendered in them. Detailed descriptions of intra-family tortures and assassinations in order to guarantee the strongest head of a given House, the lack of concepts such as love and kindness, the never-ending mistrust of others. It felt like a maddening nightmare. Who could live there and still keep their sanity, Gale wondered. He felt exhausted only by reading about that. It was impossible to imagine what it might be to be a Drow ascending ranks in the Underdark. Immediately, the image of Chardry came to his mind, making him frown.

The doubt continued to flit about in his mind. It was a foolish doubt, but a doubt in the end… Was his companion a half breed? Likely. Although Gale could not be completely sure about the true depth of Chardry’s personality since it had been less than a week that he knew the man. He was sure his companion would never reach the obscene display of cruelty described in that book. Not at all. Of that, he was more than sure.

However, according to that book, half breeds were always a result of human slaves under the dominion of drows. Their offspring were never desired.

Gale lifted his eyes from the book and looked around the camp in an attempt to locate Chardry. It was easy enough. Eyes closed, the man was extending their bedrolls on several big rocks under the sun, brushing with a dampened piece of fabric the excess of mud attached to them. From time to time, Chardry opened his eyes ever so slightly, spotting the next part to clean, and closed them again, continuing with his work blindly; that much Gale could see.

Returning once more to the section of social traditions, Gale confirmed what he already knew. Marriage and courtship among Drows were equally cruel if not rare. Women were the only ones able to choose, while a man courting a woman could cost him his head. No matter the type of arrangement, their relationships always revolved around power. Matriarchs could have their own harems, picking their fancies everywhere, and those who were chosen had little room to reject.

There were also strange descriptions of different hierarchies of lovers. Lovers to enjoy the moment, lovers for power-reasons, lovers for a strong offspring. And the most disturbing thing Gale read was exactly at the end of the chapter: male drows that became boring toys were immediately massacred if they were not useful warriors or mages. A quite worthy reason to escape that nightmare, he thought.

That chapter gave him the confirmation he needed; Chardry was without doubts a half breed . Not to question his abilities on the battlefield, but the man was certainly far from being an exceptional mage. And his skills were not enough to escape the Underdark alive. But still, those eyes... the red eyes. They bothered him; the only solid inconsistency against his speculations.

“So you ended up keeping that book?”

A soft, neutral voice broke the tension that the text had inspired in him. Gale raised his eyes; Chardry was in front of him with a book in his hand, arranging his robe to sit by the fire under the shadow of a nearby tree. 

“I said to myself, why not? Despite its popularity among scholar circles, I’ve never read it. And considering this place has no library to give me another option to enjoy myself… I could not afford to be so picky.” Gale offered as an excuse, unsure of how much of that was true.

Chardry winced, disappointment transparent in his gesture as his eyes fell once more on that worn-out cover. “After that book, many series of novels appeared. The adventures in the Underdark. The Secret Lover. The Dark Slave.”

“The famous one of those was… uhm.” Gale squinted, he had its name in the tip of his tongue. “Something about whispers… I can’t remember it.”

“Secret Whispers in the Dark.”

Gale smirked. The man had said it in a heartbeat. Probably a fan of that great master of words: Dashila Marcht. Author of a delightful, unique erotic genre. In that particular title she narrated the story of a drow, sexual toy of the matriarch of a spy House, who had to leave the Underdark in a mission on the surface. His abilities were mostly related to his seduction, and no surface woman or man could resist him. His dark ecstasy powers emerged in the intense moments of the love-making, giving to his lovers the most intoxicating night that any mortal could ask for.

The book had been a massive success, catching the interest of not only scholar circles or illustrated groups but also the common folks. Secret Whispers in the Dark became extremely popular in most towns. The book had such an effect that, for a while, it installed the trend to look for a drow lover, one of the most common fantasies in cities decades ago. Only then Gale realised how, perhaps, Chardry had faced more than a few problems thanks to that Compendium and the following wave of literature associated with it.

“I assume those books added more troubles to your life.”

Chardry looked at the cookfire, nodding in silence. 

“Think of it in this way: they may have given you many unusual opportunities. I bet you took an interest in someone during that gust of drow popularity.”

Frowning, Chardry darted his eyes at Gale but said nothing. 

“Or maybe not. My apologies. It seems to be a sensitive topic. Won’t happen again.” Gale closed the book not without placing a fallen leaf on the page he was reading and put it aside. “Onto other matters, we’ve been travelling together for a while, and we’ve witnessed unbelievable things. As many wise women and men taught me: if we seek to solve, we must seek to comprehend... so I wanted to ask your opinion on this Absolute fellow. Lately, I’ve been thinking about it.”

Now more relaxed, Chardry rested his hands on the book he placed on his lap. He did not open it yet. “Do you have some interesting conclusions?”

“Conclusions? No. Questions? Now, of those, I have many.” Gale slid along the bedroll they were sitting and approached Chardry. He spoke looking at the fire, paying attention so their breakfast would not burn. “It is a strange creation, considering the mind flayers usual strategies.”

“Indeed. I wonder if it’s even of mind flayer’s nature.”

Gale extended his index finger in the air, “Tadpoles modified with shadow magic is alarming.” A second finger followed, “Mind Flayers detest and dismiss arcane power. To use it in their own process of reproduction, so carefully protected… is even more alarming.”

Chardry nodded. “Would you think an elder brain is behind all this? Would it have called themselves a Goddess for that matter?”

“They don’t have genders. But that could be a fair point. Still, it feels odd. Would Mind Flayers look for control by using the concept of a Goddess?” Gale scratched his own chin, his mouth twisted to the side.

“What if the Mind Flayers are controlled by a new Goddess?” Chardry said.

Humming, Gale raised his eyebrows at the thought, a smirk flickered on his face. “I would call that  _ poetic justice _ .”

“Every night I think about this Goddess… The visions we saw of that Mind Flayer during Ragzlin’s ritual…” Chardry closed his eyes, and his keen mind brought the memory back to the present.  _ Curved drow blades, crude goblin torches, gnoll teeth dripping blood. Then, Mind Flayers arranged in a serene circle. Absolute Unity. Absolute power. _ “It could be the work of an elder brain, but the shadow magic surrounding all this makes it implausible. There certainly is an outside power beyond the Illithids. Did you see the symbol of the Absolute the goblins were wearing?”

Gale’s index finger assertively wiggled in the air. “The bloody hand. Over a skull. On a triangle. I noticed that too. But... why? Why would the Three Dead (*) allow anyone to call them Goddess. They should be a triad, at least. Not a single Goddess.”

“Indeed. What if the gods are fighting their own war once more, and are using Mind Flayers as their puppets to gather their armies. But, ironically, all of them are controlled by a higher Goddess. That, or they made a temporary arrangement with this goddess to work together in their plans. She may have not many followers per se, so she lured the followers of other gods to her by using their symbols and promises in one. She is gathering power. For absolute control.”

Gale remained silent for a moment, pondering over the questions that had been asked. “A Goddess controlling gods and Mind Flayers? As plausible as it is implausible.” Gale sighed, shaking his head softly. “The times we are living in.”

He knelt before the fire, poured the stew into the bowls, and gave one to each of their companions. They still needed to explore the Goblin camp, preferably on friendly terms, gather as much information they needed for Wyll, and seek out Halsin. It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Three Dead** [[canon](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Dead_Three)]: Constituted of Bane: the Lord of Darkness, Bhaal: the Lord of Murder, and Myrkul: the Lord of Bones. Originally, they were powerful mortal adventurers who sought the path to godhood. They accomplished their desires when Jergal, God of death, acquiesced to their demands since he was tired of his life as god of the dead. He gave up his portfolios to the three of them, apotheosizing them in the process. Bane became the God of tyranny and strife, Bhaal, the god of murder, and Myrkul, the god of the dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Magic is a beautiful art and a dear treasure for any magician. It is a knowledge that despite its dangerous nature, is always given to those who seek it. Except to him. Nobody would teach him, no one would dare to share the smallest bit of arcane wisdom to a drow; evil creatures of selfish desires. For him, all doors had always been closed.

The only ones that were open were those of the books. Through books there was bliss. Trading, selling, and copying books were all safe options for a drow. In fact, the merchant life was the best choice for a drow of calm temper. Despite the mistrust in their eyes, merchants could overlook his appearance for a while as long as there were plenty of coins on the table. And resorting to some disguising spells would never harm a business meeting. But none of that was possible in the academies.

From Jedea to Eltorchul Academy (*), nobody wanted to risk teaching a drow who had no history behind him, no matter how much money he could offer. It was not as if drows were completely banned from these institutions, but given the uncertainty of his origin, nobody wanted to risk slipping knowledge to dark elves. He could be an undercover Menzoberranzan (*) agent on a mission, or a spy from one of the shadiest schools that populated the realms. He could even be a forbidden necromancer who wanted to expand his school by tempting the students from the most respectable institutions. He could also be a nobody, and he truly was, but apparently the chances for him to be more than an anonymous elf were always higher. After all, it was in his eyes: the source of the ever-present suspicion that surrounded him, closing all academy’s doors in front of him. 

Now, with a tadpole slithering through his brain and his days numbered, he could not stop thinking about the rare possibility in front of him. A wizard from the city of Splendours no less, sitting in front of their campfire, lost in thoughts while chewing some dried jerky. This was a unique opportunity. Sure, there were many more pressing matters to focus on but the possibility was right there. He could not miss it.

The human had been friendly. And quite susceptible to flattery, like most wizards are. Chardry knew that his own deliberate display of knowledge and deductions, most of the time overshared, had gladly surprised the man on more than one occasion. In fact, Chardry was absolutely certain that Gale enjoyed their time together. It was obvious in Gale's habits, always approaching him to engage in some conversation, whether it was about a book remembered in the middle of a fight during the day, or a thought that pestered him since the sunrise.

If he could choose the exact words, if he could flatter the very thing that makes Gale proudest, with all the amount of respect he had already earned, Chardry knew he could reach deeper, and eventually exploit his friendship. But there was still a little problem. He should be thinking about the tadpole and how to fix it, not how to charm a wizard into teaching him magic. His life depended on it. But then again...  _ the opportunity of his life was right there _ , in front of him. How could he simply turn it down? He cursed all the gods and goddesses that were probably enjoying the paradox of his situation.

He had bee n subtle so far. Carefully listening to the most obvious explanations, nodding at Gale’s sto ries despite knowing them beforehand, and flattering even his most basic skills such as… cooking. Indeed, Gale’s stew could be much worse. But for gods’ sake, it was a mere stew. What more was there left to flatter? Boiled water with vegetables and spices? He was running out of convincing adjectives that would not reveal his false flattery.

Chardry was c omplaining just for the sake of it. Gale, unlike Chardry’s usual interactions with humanoids outside his merchant caravan circle, had been more than kind to him. For once, he never expressed any assumption about drows, their culture, or habits. At least, not out loud. Which was a very pleasant surprise. The only thing Chardry could complain about was Gale’s sudden interest in that damned book during the past few days. That blasted  _ Compendium of Drow Society _ . He was expecting Gale to approach him at any moment and ask him about the information in it, but thanks to the cursed gods, he never did it. Perhaps the display of his obvious annoyance towards that book prevented Gale to share his doubts, or maybe it was as he said before: it was just a matter of having no other entertaining book at hand.

In front of the campfire, his eyes met Gale’s during his mental analysis of the situation. Gale stood close to him, frowning as usual. Chardry smiled —the only response he could do before those piercing eyes. He was still not completely used to that frowning habit of Gale’s. At first, he thought the man had a personal problem with him, as it was only natural between humans and drows. But after some time, he realised that it was just Gale’s nature. Always frowning with those penetrating eyes. 

Gale smiled back. “Calm night, it seems. It gives too much room for silent thoughts. Do you mind another session of sociability? I, certainly, am in need of one.”

“Very well.” In an attempt to sound casual, Chardy’s words came out with a hint of carelessness, as if he were not using every second in thinking how to introduce his request. 

“I’ve been watching you these last few days. Your combat skills left me thinking… They are…  _ uncommon _ .” Gale took his time to choose the last word, his eyes always seeking for that little twitch of nervousness that could transpire in a moment of weakness. 

Chardry was not intimidated; he grew accustomed to deal with those constant hard looks during his life. “I hope that’s not a hidden complaint.”

“Oh, no. On the contrary…. it’s more like a hidden compliment out of curiosity.”

Chardry smirked, confident. _ Oh, yes. _ He could use Gale’s weakest point: his own curiosity. The best weapon and the greatest weakness a man can have. He remained silent, observing the human while sipping his bowl of stew. Silence was the best way to tempt him to keep digging. In that need for digging, there was always trading.

“Can I ask you where you studied? Or where are you from? You never told me, the other night.” Gale asked. 

And so the digging began.

“I’m from here and there. I don't have a place that I can call home.”

Gale frowned. “Are you a nomad?”

“I’ve worked, for a time, in trading.”

He could immediately see in Gale’s face the conflict that such information had triggered; the process of contrasting each of the small conclusions with what Chardry displayed in his demeanour. It was a process that, despite its silence, kept using all the bias and expectations that a mere Drow on the surface inspires. But Gale was intelligent enough not to say them aloud. But it was undeniable that they were there. And now, they were compared with every chapter he had read in that blasted  _ Compendium _ .

The conclusion became obvious to Chardry when Gale’s frown deepened, and his piercing eyes broke visual contact for a brief moment. Conflicting information, disagreeable conclusion. Gale was assuming he was a wizard working in slave markets. The man was not going to explicitly say a word until further proof, but the conclusion and its terrible assumptions were there. 

Chardry sighed, betting that the next inquiry was going to be the one that always bothered him the most. If he was correctly appraising Gale, questions about slaves were incoming soon. That man would not go to sleep without confirming or denying that uncomfortable assumption first. 

“And what did you trade?” Gale said.

_ Hmph _ .  _ Smooth indeed. _ Chardry smiled, looking at the fire, triumphant yet disappointed. Gale was another human after all. He met his eyes once more. “Books.” 

The change in Gale’s face was instantaneous. Surprise at first, then relief. Chardry was curious about that last hint of emotion.  _ Relief _ ? For not having to deal with a slaver?  _ Probably _ . Maybe it was because Gale had a personal story related to slavery. He could have been a slave or have a dear one who was. Or perhaps it was simply that he had an ethic he liked to follow as much as possible. The more he knew about Gale, the more he was inclined for the latter opinion. After all, he had seen in Gale a kind, gentle soul. It was only natural that the man was against those brutal practices.  _ At least on the surface _ . Chardry noted that detail to himself. He could not forget that appearances were deceiving; every person, no matter their kindness, projects their own twisted shadows behind them. He was old enough to know it all too well.

“You must have generated a great profit in my homeland.” Gale added.

“Indeed. I travelled to Waterdeep several times. It’s a great city which appreciates good quality books without haggling their prices. However, you need to find the rarest ones to offer. They tend to be clients that are extremely hard to please.”

“Yes. It can’t be any other way. The more obscure arcana books you can offer, the more attention you will get, and the more money they will be happy to pay.”

Chardy smiled, observing the now relaxed face of the human. Despite the good-spirited chatting, his frown was still there, persistent. 

“Still, you didn’t answer my former question.” Gale insisted.

“Didn’t I?”

Gale tilted his head, smirking. The teasing had a limit. “You have been talking to Shadowheart too much, I think. You are adopting her vices…”

Chardry chuckled. But when he started to think how to conveniently answer that, his good cheer faded, and a fake smile remained. “I’ve studied for a time… short time… in the Magic School of Silrva (*).”

Now Gale’s frown deepened. “Where is that?”

“Ah… somewhere in… Chessenta. Who knows what the city is called now.”

Gale broke their visual contact once more and ate a bit of dried jerky, observing the fire. He was also drawing his own conclusions, appraising him… and by the way his smirk flickered, Chardry knew he had failed in his attempt to deceive him.

“Now I see. It makes sense. Yet… Don’t worry.” Gale said, “I don’t mind  _ those  _ wizards as long as they are responsible for the spells they use. I saw you casting, and it’s well done. Bit rough, but stable. You learnt that well.”

Chardry rubbed his neck, feeling exposed. Most people would scream in fear or become aggressive before the presence of a hedge-wizard. Especially a drow one. “I didn’t lie. I studied in that academy for a couple of months. Just some months.”

“Why did you stop?”

Chardry placed his palm under his own chin, as if he were raising his own face and showing it, “Look at me. That’s why.”

Gale did not think twice and turned his head to look at him. Gale’s face was now softer, his frown relaxed, and a hint of concealed pity transpired in his eyes. The man had reached the correct conclusions. A drow on a surface has no easy life. “I know Menzoberranzan has quite a reputable academy…”

“Indeed. It’s a good option. If you want to die quickly in an inner war between students.”

“It’s true that… there are rumours about it…” Gale added diplomatically.

“Rumours I know that are true, trust me.”

Gale nodded in silence. As excellent as it was, Menzoberranzan academy had the fame of being, like everything in drow society: cruel and ruthless without a room for mistakes. Only the students who never failed could reach graduation. The rest would simply perish along the way. Tough price to pay for learning.

“What about Waterdeep? Certainly drow fellows there are rare, but you can find some.”

“It’s not the same. Did you see my eyes?”

Gale frowned once more. The light of the fire was not enough to observe the detail from that distance, so he moved and sat by Chardry’s side. Chardry could not help but think about how many problems this man had experienced just by the way he aggressively inspected others. Inquisitive attitude if there ever was one. 

“Mnh. I see. But is  _ that  _ important?” Gale asked.

Chardry blinked in confusion. “You never heard what everyone says about red-eyed drows?”

Gale shrugged, “Yes. But everyone says ridiculous things all the time. Not the most reliable source, I may add.”

Speechless for a second, Chardry smiled, ignoring how deeply and warmly those words had hit him. “Well. Reliable or not, people won’t trust one. Not even in Waterdeep. Magic is too dangerous and every academy has its own secrets they protect. Nobody wants them to fall into a cruel creature’s hands.”

Gale’s face softened even more, an instant of sadness and pity flashed in his eyes. As a wizard, he probably sympathised with the tragedy of wanting to learn but being denied to.

Not exactly the way Chardry was planning to reach this point, but it was working. He would not complain if he could pull a bit more and finally push this gentle human into offering him what he wanted the most. Maybe he could use that pity. Annoying but useful. If he could exploit it a little bit more. 

“To tell the truth, I’ve tried to be part of academies many times, to have formal education, but… they never gave me a choice. Working with books allowed me to have access to a good amount of deep knowledge. And I can certainly say that most of it is here,” Chardry tapped his temple. “But I fear practicing it. I’ve read enough to understand the dangers of incorrect casting and inaccurate somatic components. It’s not to be taken lightly.” And he had already made many mistakes on that matter. But Gale was fine without knowing that part. 

Gale nodded, satisfied. It was evident for Chardry that such display of responsibility had earned more of his respect, now being a little bit closer to the offer. So he risked it. It was now or never.

“You are such a great scholar, and by the way you fight, it’s evident you are a highly qualified wizard. You are not just your words.” 

“And you had not yet seen more than the mere tip of the iceberg.”

Chardry tried to control the urge of rolling his eyes and continued, “Coming from Waterdeep may have exposed you to a countless amount of different schools, tutors, techniques, and practices that have polished your unique style-”

Gale’s smile broadened with such long flattery, but before Chardry could finish, Gale frowned without giving up his complacent smile.

“You want me to teach you.” Gale stated. He did not use a questioning intonation. He was certain of what he had perceived.

_ Damn that sharp man. _

Chardry pretended he was surprised by his words and casually covered his mouth with his hand. This was going to be a failure, so he had to use his merchant skills. If a man does not want to sell an item, convince them that they had already done it, with extra benefits. Or make the situation look like a big misunderstanding that would only bring shame to anyone trying to correct it. “What a generous offer coming from such an accomplished wizard. I’m in awe. I’m more than honoured to be your student.” Chardry said, a bright clean smile on his face.

“What… I didn’t offer…” Gale looked at him, confused.

“Thank you very much. I’ll be forever in your debt. Teaching is one of the most noble gestures that a man can do for another. And I can assure you, my friend, having me indebted to you gives you many benefits that you’re not seeing right now, but they will become evident in the future. This arrangement will be more than profitable for the both of us.”

Gale could see that merchant sweet tongue in action and the charming smile that the drow pulled out of nowhere. For a moment, they locked their eyes one another in silence, knowing what they were doing and, deep down, admiring it. Then, they laughed.

“Oh, Waukeen (*), have mercy. You are a danger for anyone, my friend. You almost got me. Well played, well done.” Gale could not help but feel playful before that ingenious skill. Teaching was the last thing he wanted to do in their current situation, but for this curious fellow that he was getting along so well with, he could make an exception. "Fine. You win. We'll start tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jedea Academy** [[canon](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Jedea_Academy)]: It is a famous school of magic located in the residential district of the city of Mordulkin in Chessenta.
> 
> **Eltorchul Academy** [[canon](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Eltorchul_Academy)]: It is an arcane academy founded by the noble family of the same name. The academy was originally only open to nobles and children of means, but the school and family fell on hard times after a failed magical experiment. Since then, Eltorchul Academy was open to almost any student who had the money to pay for tuition, including many elves, half-elves, and halflings. 
> 
> **Menzoberranzan** [[canon](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Menzoberranzan)]: also called the City of Spiders, it is a large underground drow city-state in the Upper Northdark. Menzoberranzan is the most well known drow city in Faerûn.
> 
> **Silrva’s Magic School** [headcanon]: an arcane school of low prestige, placed in Chessenta. 
> 
> **Waukeen** [[canon](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Waukeen)]: she is a lesser deity known as the Merchant's Friend, Liberty's Maiden, and the Golden Lady. Her portfolio includes everything related to commerce and the accumulation of wealth through free and fair trade, as well as the beneficial use of wealth to improve civilization. Waukeen is also the goddess of illicit trade and the patron of many smugglers, black marketeers, and "businessmen" on the shady side of commerce.


	4. Chapter 4

For several days, after each excursion to rescue Halsin, Gale helped Chardry with the practice of his spells during the evening in the safety of their camp. At first he considered it a waste of time, but the eagerness of the drow, and to be honest, the sad story of rejection behind him, convinced Gale to, at least, give him an opportunity. Who was he to deny it anyways. 

It was known that hedge-wizards had not much to offer but tattered and disarranged demonstrations of magic that could be categorised as plain butchering of the Weave. However, the more he understood how Chardry twisted the usual process of learning in order to avoid an excess of mistakes in his techniques, the more he was surprised. Pleasantly surprised. Maybe the man did not follow the standard procedures for learning a spell, or he cast them in unnecessarily complicated ways, but there was a solid technique in all of them. At least the drow had a decent level of respect for the Weave and a deep awareness of his own limitations to know exactly where to push and when to stop his thirst for knowledge. Gale deeply appreciated that, because he, of all people, knew too well how much self-restraint was required to stop the temptation of magic. 

Gale believed that the lessons were going to be one-sided, with nothing more for him to take in exchange. But he was wrong. It was curious for him to see the way Chardry conjured spells, which despite not being new knowledge per se, showed unusual ways of casting. Most of them lacked somatic components, too hard to learn from books alone the more elaborate they become. But somehow, Chardry modified those components and developed new spells without somatic elements. To a certain degree, it was fascinating to see how, even with his limitations, Chardry had crafted humble spells that were practical and safe. Truth be told, spells without such components were more than useful to  _ any  _ wizard. So, he could not help but feel curious about what more Chardry could offer with his ingenious use of magic. He turned out to be an interesting fellow. 

Far away from the camp, beside the river, Gale saw Chardry successfully perform one of the last spells he taught him that day. 

“Your illusion magic is solid. I saw it in battle, I see it here. Did you learn it only with books? I’m impressed.” Gale said, arms crossed as he nodded at the movements he had just seen.

“Your words are most appreciated.” Chardry’s voice failed for a moment, filled with emotion. He cleared his throat and looked aside. “Thank you kindly for the lesson today.”

Surprised, Gale smiled, perceiving how much of this meant for that man. The struggle in the limitations finally overcame, the denied need for learning satisfied after a long sustained failure, the rewards that come from the stubbornness to keep on trying no matter what. He knew about that all too well. In other contexts, for other things. But he knew them all.

“You’re welcome. I’m glad to help. Besides, you learn quite fast.”

“In theory, I already have everything here,” Chardry said tapping his temple. “I just need the practical details.”

“But let’s be honest. It still won’t help without a  _ good  _ teacher.”

“Of course, of course. I would be nothing without such an  _ extraordinary  _ teacher as yourself.” Chardry theatrically bowed, earning a disapproving, yet playful look from Gale. 

It was easy to learn magic without physical components from books. The complicated ones were those which needed elaborated movements of hands and fingers, sometimes even shifting the whole body to focus the Weave through the flesh and materialise it in the spell itself. No matter how gifted the author, the written descriptions of such intricate movements were always scarce, inviting mistakes with dire consequences if performed without guidance. Those spells were the most dangerous ones in the hands of hedge-wizards, and the main cause for butchering the Weave. 

“So you can appreciate my skills, I will share a unique spell with you.” Gale walked off along the river edge and sat on a group of stones. He invoked dim lights around him, and took a book from his bag. A book that Chardry immediately recognised as a spellbook. Gale’s grimoire. The most precious and personal book that a wizard always carries. 

Gale moved his hand to invite him to take a seat beside him. Placing the book on his lap, Gale moved his fingers in an elegant way and whispered some Draconic words which turned into echoes as the magic manifested on its cover. The book unlocked itself, displaying Gale’s beautifully calligraphy. 

Chardry’s mouth was slightly agape, speechless, lost in the moment. This was special.  _ Truly special. _ Gale was aware of the effect that such a moment had on any wizard’s life. He still remembered the first time his most admired tutor allowed him to see her grimoire. He was only a child but that event was treasured in his memory, ever-fresh. 

He let the moment last longer before speaking again. He turned some pages, showing elaborated glyphs and equations, and stopped at the one he wanted to teach Chardry, only in theory for now. They were, after all, completely depleted. Chardry’s eyes were still locked on the pages, seeing equations, glyphs, and occasional pieces of poetry.

“Are you alright?” Gale said. 

Chardry jolted from his trance and looked at him with teary eyes. “Yes, yes. I’m fine… I was admiring the calligraphy.”

“I know. It’s beautiful.”

In a second of clarity, Gale realised the strange position he was in. He never imagined he could reach this level of trust with an almost stranger. Sharing a personal spell, even though it was not one of the most powerful ones, was a rare practice between students and teachers, and even rarer among great wizards. To find himself easily sharing the little bits of magic he loved the most with this man was disturbing. He wondered if their tadpoles and their connections made him prone to trust too quickly. Or perhaps it was that beautiful display of magic learnt between the limitations and the ingenuity. Gale could not lie to himself. A wizard respecting the Weave, respecting Mystra, earned his respect almost immediately.

Hurting the Weave, dragging too much from it or tainting it—practices too common among the hedge-wizards out of ignorance—were not part of Chardry’s style. His age probably helped him to polish his initial butchered attempts. But he certainly cared enough to improve until reaching this level of skilled technique. Perhaps Gale only wanted to reward such care. Maybe it was just that.

“Read this one.” Gale pointed out a personal variation of Mage Armour, more powerful than the one usually taught in the first levels of any academy. He had to be sure Chardry was going to last during their future fights against the goblins. Or in case of one of his breathing attacks, this extra protection which did not require concentration could even save his life.

After Chardry quickly memorised it, Gale showed him the movements and corrected Chardry’s performance. Of course, they had to do it without pulling the Weave; the practice had exhausted them. However, Chardry kept insisting, making Gale smile at such childish behaviour. 

Such passion for magic and learning inspired him. It made him remember his young self. Magic could be so overwhelming, so powerful, almost addicting… and seeing Chardry brightly smile at the correct performance of a simple spell impressed him. Or perhaps ‘impressed’ was too strong a word. Maybe it was that hint of innocence displayed in a man who wanted to keep learning despite his exhaustion. Maybe it was Gale’s memory of the first time he could cast an incantation when he was a child. That silly feeling of being overpowerful for such a small feat. That innocence he had forgotten, which, in a sense, the silver fire (*) had consumed to ashes. 

Putting aside those painful memories, he resumed observing Chardry—still trying in vain to drag magic from the Weave. It made him remember the first time he met him. After the crash of the Nautiloid, Gale had been walking around the roads, jumping from one teleportation rune to another, when—out of the blue—he met him . At that moment, he had expected things to go south too quickly. 

Startling a drow of red eyes under the sun was never a good introduction. In fact, it was the prologue of a short story where the hero died butchered on the spot. But beyond Chardry’s wary look at that moment, his lack of aggressive stance ended up encouraging him. It became obvious for Gale that such a drow was not a full drow. No purebred would have faced him so diplomatically. But then again, those eyes…

And despite his wisest inner voice telling him to leave… Gale could not do it. Curiosity got the better of him, as it usually did. Something about that drow made him want to give him the benefit of the doubt—and soon he even began to trust him. Just plain trust. And that amount of trust was easily translated into sharing his own spellbook. He was certainly missing out on stages. It had to be the tadpole.

His thoughts were violently interrupted by the sound of clashing, magical metal followed by a bright yellow glow that caught his eyes. Then, Chardry appeared in front of him, arms akimbo, proudly displaying a thin layer of magic swirling on his chest. He had managed to cast it. 

Gale frowned. A faint gust of darkness could be sensed around the place. Not too strongly, but it was there. Chardry had not channelled the Weave to cast the spell. It had come from another source. He was sure of that. If something had been left from his previous powers, it was his receptive sense to detect magic without the help of spells.  _ Any  _ kind of magic. He could not sense it clearly as he used to do long time ago—when the silver fire ran through his veins—but it was enough to perceive it there. 

“Something wrong?” Chardry said.

Gale could not say it. Something darker had been used in that spell, but there was no way to find it now. Whatever it was, it had been dissipated in the air, worrying him a bit. Hedge-wizards tended to acquire bad habits which, in the long term, ended up being extremely dangerous.

“You should not have been able to cast it. We are both exhausted. So… let me give you a piece of advice. If you reach your limit, stay in your limit. Don’t push it. The Weave’s not the only source of magic… and this phenomenon tends to be dangerous in the long term. You don’t want to mix different planes of magic in the same place you are standing.”

Taking his advice to heart, Chardry nodded.

Gale locked his spellbook with a movement of his fingers and stood up, stretching his back. “This is all for today. Let’s prepare dinner, otherwise, nobody in this bloody camp will cook anything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Silver fire [**[ **canon**](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Silver_fire) **]** : Special power granted by Mystra to all her Chosen Ones. For more details [[here](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Silver_fire)].


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank [Darkest_Fluid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Fluid) for their work in betareading this fic from now on.
> 
> \----------------------
> 
> This chapter is special in its own. I tend to write with instrumental music in the background so it’s natural that some scenes could be enhanced when reading them with that music. This is the case of this chapter. I highly recommend playing the suggested links when the text says so, and wait for the song to finish (or stop it) when the text states it. It adds a bit more to the mood of the narrator of this chapter: Gale. After all, Gale is a char susceptible to artistic manifestations. It’s much appreciated if you can do this.  
> All the links are instrumental pieces of music, more precisely, erhu pieces without lyrics, so they won’t interrupt the reading.

Gale walked to the side of the camp and sighed in disgust. For a brief moment he looked at the uninviting running water. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, promising this water to be as warm as possible. Looking for some courage, he smelled the shoulder of his robe, and his nose wrinkled immediately. This was something that had to be done. So he removed his clothes and threw them among the stones. Some meters away, the calm sound of the small waterfall feeding the river entertained his thoughts, helping him to keep his mind blank as he walked into the current. A painful tension spread all over his back and legs.

_ Damned cold water _ . He had never been so mad at himself in having wasted all his magic for the day. This bath could be much better with a smidge of magic, but no. It was, instead, the opposite of relaxing. He sighed once more. At least it was better than smelling of gore and sweat. Although it was hard to find comfort in that thought while a strong contracture stiffened his neck.

Another sigh of annoyance and resignation; he took his clothes—now soaked at the edge of the river—and started to wash them in the old fashion, rubbing them against the stones with only water. Sadly, not even soap was possible to have in this damn wilderness. How he missed living in a city and sleeping in a bed, even if it were in one of the most deplorable inns. Anything was better than these harsh circumstances.

Once finished with his clothes, he touched a massive stone by the side of the river. An extremely easy incantation made it warm to the touch. There it went, his last minor spell of the day. He spread his robe and a gentle steam began to emanate from it. A simple spell of warmth that would dry his clothes by the time he finished his bath.

He returned to the middle of the current and managed to sit on a rock that allowed him to keep his head above water. Quiet, he focused on deceiving his mind for a while. He could imagine that this was one of those public, hot lavender-scented baths so common in Waterdeep, and that the hammer-like hits on the back of his neck—the same exact place where that goblin had downed him with a mace—were in fact, a gentle massage.

Nope. Not working. The concentration was hard to sustain. This bath was a bloody nightmare. Cold, hard water hitting his back, numbing his toes, contracting every muscle that had earlier been overwhelmed with adrenaline. And on top of it, there was the lack of soap. He washed his face, trying to clean away the frustration, and in doing so, awoke a vivid, convoluting memory.

The running water became a calm lake filled with a purple glow, and the temperature of the place turned hot and deliciously suffocating. It was the Weave; one of the many states at its deepest level. He focused on the lingering sensations from that time, and Her memory became tantalising: the lake lost in the planes, Her scent enveloping his senses, the radiant light of the Weave blinding him with pleasure; those gentle whispers that had given him everything, the ephemeral and yet intense touch of Her skin against his. 

Then the coldness of the water made him recall an old, desperate poem he had written long ago. 

_ The eyes I spoke of once in words that burn, _ _   
_ _ the arms and hands and feet and lovely face _ _   
_ _ that took me from myself for such a space _ _   
_ _ of time and marked me out from other men; _ _   
_ _ the waving hair of unmixed gold that shone, _ _   
_ _ the smile that flashed with the angelic rays _ _   
_ _ that used to make this earth a paradise, _ _   
_ _ are now a little dust, all feeling gone; _ _   
_ _ and yet I live, grief and disdain to me, _ _   
_ _ left where the light I cherished never shows, _ _   
_ _ in fragile bark on the tempestuous sea. _ _   
_ _ Here let my loving words come to a close, _ __   
_ the vein of my accustomed art is dry, _ _   
_ __ and this, my quill, turned at last to tears.  (*)

He sighed again, this time it carried more than frustration: loneliness.

In order to put an end to the image, he opened his eyes. The harsh, cold water surrounded him once more. So many years, and yet every emotion, every fragment he had lived with Her remained painfully fresh. 

Infinite sadness squeezed his chest while recalling the chain of events that had turned his life into a living hell. As if it were not enough to struggle with the taint festering in his heart, completely abandoned and misunderstood, now he had to keep his sanity while fighting against the worm digging in his head. And the worst of it all? Enduring it alone. Always alone. How could a goddess not see his true intentions? Why could She not give him a fragment of pity in this desperate moment? Would She ever understand him, at least once? Loving so much to be so misinterpreted.

Weakened by loneliness, he lifted a cold, defeated hand over the running water and conjured Her face, a habit that had turned prevalent lately. For a brief instant, as ephemeral as Her kisses, he felt peace. She was beyond words. She was not only beauty; She was life itself. She was the warmth on a winter night, the fresh breeze of summer, the most fragrant flower blooming in spring, the wisdom in the last withered leaf falling from the tree. With a movement of his fingers he dissolved the image and remained still, surrounded by cold water, tasting once more the reverberation of that past ecstasy. It felt so bitter now, like all lost moments did.

And from that longing, his memories turned sick-black and oppressive, strangling him as he re-lived once more his unforgettable mistake: the foolishness that had taken control of his mind to reach that point, the festering blackness engulfing him in terror. Gale’s folly. Then the vivid memory of the worm’s teeth approaching his pupil, until everything became black once more. It was always black and lonesome. 

The last memories followed in a rush: the crash of the Nautiloid, the despair of knowing that all he had was a couple of days before he would lose himself in a traumatic transformation. How desperately he had asked Her for protection, begging Her to put aside his past foolishness and help him in his direst moment. Just once. Just now. But Her only answer was silence. Deafening silence. 

An infinite sadness embraced his soul as his thoughts jumped from the terrible events of the last days to that moment in which he channelled the Weave in the camp. There was no doubt. He could ignore it all he wanted to, but Her disappointed rejection was always present in the Weave he touched. Forgiveness was such an impossible thing now. Nothing in this plane could clean his name before Her. He was beyond forgiveness, it was a fact. 

Removing the evocation of Her face from his tormented mind, he tried to fill the moment with the image of a calm blank Weave, remembering its rosewater scent and the harmony inspired by it. However, his mind was not obedient that night, and it jumped from the old memory to another, fresher one. 

Still thinking of the glowing Weave, he recalled that recently shared moment with this peculiar man. Half-drow or purebred? The doubt still remained despite the days watching him. The blackness of his hair seemed to say something opposite to what that stubble-less chin implied. And those eyes. 

It was not his business, but he knew all too well how foolish a scholar's mind could be, always capriciously focusing on unimportant details that consume its attention until finding an answer. Sometimes this obsessive focus was fruitful, sometimes it was not. Sadly, this one was the latter.

He inhaled, the cold water still numbing his limbs. He did not want to think about anything. Neither about Her, nor that drow-ish man, nor the tadpole. But again his mind ignored his commands. The memory of channelling the Weave in camp returned once more to overthrow his focus. 

Little by little, while he re-examined the moment, a subtle doubt leaked. It had been a while since he allowed someone else to share such a sacred treasure, one he had always reserved for Her. Perhaps he did not want to acknowledge that so much loneliness had finally taken a toll on him. 

The exhausted endurance of his mind, the constant fear pressing in his chest, the appalling silence of his nocturnal pleas: all of these had eroded him, leaving him exposed and weak to that moment in the Weave. Or maybe  _ weak  _ was not apt enough word to describe it, but he certainly was tired of suffering that immense loneliness while carrying such an enormous burden on his shoulders. He wanted something else. Something he had been lacking for a while. A connection that was not a mere mundane gesture. A connection with joy, with his own life, with his own terrified soul, desperate to find the light in the dark dungeons that his body had become. But what was he asking for? Who would dare to accept the menace he embodied?

That day he witnessed a possibility he had never dared to think about. A possibility in the shape of a sketch, in the middle of the Weave, in a pair of red wine eyes. The beautiful drawing had been materialised into the Weave. The forest, the leaves placed aside on the ground tracing a precarious path, the running water of the river; everything was like it was in the drawing. Even far beyond the background, he had found those two figures he had barely distinguished in the notebook. 

They became vivid and clearly defined in the Weave. They were holding hands, entangling their fingers, and despite not seeing their faces, he knew a soft smile was curving their lips. The image lacked sound but the Weave recreated it in essence. It was intended that the figures should talk joyously during their walk. A deep sense of calm bliss filled the whole moment. It was peace itself.

Of course, he immediately recognised the image projected in the Weave. It was more beautiful than the quick sketch he had seen before, because plastering such harmony on the paper did not do justice to the subtle intentions and details hidden within it. The scene was a piece of art in the Weave itself: alive. He was appreciating such creation when the figures turned over. 

They were still holding hands and locking eyes on one another in the same intense way Chardry and he were doing in the real plane, in the camp. In the blink of an eye, the figures disappeared, and he and Chardry filled the space left by them. It was but a flickering moment, but it brought all the meaning at once. Only then Gale realised that those figures had always been them both.

How had Chardry allowed such an image to leak? Perhaps ignorance played against him. He might not have known how the Weave behaves at such levels, how much it can reflect one’s own desires. An understandable mistake for a hedge wizard. Even if he could have read it somewhere, no book could ever explain the unique experience that the Weave provides to mortal souls. No language was sufficient for that. It was clear that, if the man had projected that image with such vivid intensity, it was because the emotions in it were intense as well, unable to conceal them in the mantle of the Weave. Had Chardry known it beforehand, Gale was not sure if the man would have allowed the Weave to connect them.

In any case, that had been a pleasant surprise. Surprise because the mere thought of someone having these endearing emotions towards him was completely unexpected. Chardry was already aware that something was wrong with him. He had tried his best to keep it secret, but upon returning from death, he could not avoid half-answering some of his questions. And if there was a sharp fellow in this camp—besides himself of course—it was Chardry. Those half-answers had been enough for him to reach his own conclusions. Not enough to get the exact big picture, but close enough. That was when the surprise became pleasant. Once he had fallen from grace, Mystra never dared to be by his side anymore. But this strange man… despite the looming danger, the secrecy, the warnings; he still wanted to hold his hand. Not even Mystra dared…

Not even Her.

The thought was bitter. And unbelievable.

But then again, Chardry only knew half of it. In the moment the truth would finally unfold, Gale was not so sure Chardry would not act the same way Mystra did. He was, after all, a walking calamity. Not exactly the most appealing trait for romance.

_ [If desired,  _ [ _ play this song in the background _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3kyfjVpqtM) _ while reading. Let it finish/stop it when the text says so.] _

A languorous melody interrupted his thoughts. It was a gentle, caring execution of an instrument that sounded sometimes like a violin, sometimes like a weeping voice. The melody was echoing all around him and had a magical sense to it, as if its strings were made of Weave. Suddenly, the cold water of the river numbing his body did not matter anymore. The notes transported him to a hill of green high grass undulating with the breeze, while the last rays of a dying sun illuminated the canopy of distant trees. There was a lake close to them that reflected the colours of the sky. With the darkness spreading over the landscape, the first fireflies appeared around the lake, flitting aimlessly. In the same rhythm of the song, some clouds crossed the sky, filling Gale with an extraordinary sensation of peace. A feeling he had forgotten a long time ago.

The song stopped, and his consciousness abruptly returned to reality. That had not been a mere piece of music. It had magic attached to it. Simple, harmless magic of an illusive nature that had dragged his mind out of his own body, submerging him in a delicate picture. He quickly got out from the river and donned his now dried clothes, and waited for another song. It did not take long.

_ [If desired,  _ [ _ play this song in the background _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBJ7A6XoBys) _ while reading. Let it finish/stop it when the text says so.] _

He looked back at the camp, wondering if he should inform his companions about this phenomenon and his intentions of investigating it. He began to shrug off his concern; after all, it was just a mysterious song that appeared out of the blue and was spreading through the forest. However, his doubts resurfaced again as his eyes were fixed in the direction of the camp. Thinking these thoughts made it feel more dangerous than it was, but then again, the song had an inoffensive sense to it. So without second thoughts, he walked into the forest alone. With each step, the song became stronger and clearer, and the sensations inspired by it more intense.

At the end of the thin forest, close to a cliff, he found Chardry. Eyes closed, the drow was sitting on a rock and playing that typical string instrument from the far lands of Cormyr. A sound ward made of flat rocks with glyphs painted on them were on the ground, surrounding him. The erhu was resting on his lap, and his fingers, glowing an unearthly blue, caressed its strings, adding to them a soft layer of illusion magic. His body swayed with the melody, lost in the pleasure of the execution.

Gale could not help but take a long moment to appreciate the harmony of the music. He approached discreetly, but Chardry perceived his presence nonetheless. The drow stopped the song and turned over; wary eyes flecked with iridescent green standing out in the partial shadows of the environment. As soon as Chardry recognised him, his look softened. He moved his hand in the air, breaking the sound ward spell around him, and squinted at Gale.

"Gale... what are you doing here?"

"The song brought me here. I was curious."

Chardry frowned, looking down at the several stones forming a circle around him. The glyphs on them were properly done, the arrangement correct. There was no mistake. "How did you hear it?"

Gale followed Chardry’s sight to the symbol on the ground and nodded. “Let’s say that... it doesn’t work with me. You know, once you reach certain levels of expertise, your susceptibility to any kind of magic becomes strong.” It was not a lie, only a partial truth. Having been a Chosen One was not exactly a level of expertise.

He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked at the nocturnal landscape. The moon shone its pale light over the forest below, and in the far horizon, where the river was lost, he could distinguish some lights of the nearby town. A fresh breeze moved his damp hair. He felt at peace. This was much better than trying to enjoy a bath in a cold river.

Curious at not hearing another piece, Gale turned on his heels and looked at Chardry. The drow had left the instrument aside, and was rewriting some glyphs on the stones while frowning in disbelief at them. 

“Could you….” Gale said, hesitant. “Could you play it again? The first song…”

Chardry appeared to ignore him, focusing on the stone in his hand, leaving the request unanswered in silence. Then he left the stone on the ground and picked it up again, observing it out of nervousness. Still silence. Seemingly unsure how much more he could improve that glyph, he dropped it once more. Hesitant, he looked at Gale as if he were pondering something about him. Gale was not sure what it could be.

Chardry straightened his back, touched his ears—always covering them with part of his hair—and began to play the instrument once more. This time, his fingers glowed a more intense shade of blue. This spell was going to be more powerful than before. 

_ [If desired,  _ [ _ play this song in the background _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AVXejOoPECA) _ while reading. ] _

Gale smiled. He could indulge himself within the spell, or remain as he was, observing the melancholic figure of the drow under the moonlight, eyes closed and eyebrows raised in musical pleasure. But Chardry was interpreting the piece with all his heart, so Gale did not hesitate and closed his eyes as well to let the spell work on him. 

The illusion of the hill rose once more, vivid and colourful. The scent of lavender filled the image as patches of lilac flowers in the vast fields of grass moved with the breeze. The sun, already deep down into the horizon, tinged the sky with reds and oranges, highlighting the flocks of birds flying West. As the song progressed, the sky darkened into a blue black. The moonless night evoked by this landscape was not sombre, and allowed Gale to distinguish a long road on the hill, fusing in the distance with the horizon. Along it, several merchant caravans were peacefully heading North. 

A gentle rain began to fall onto the landscape, and despite the sentiment of sadness present in it, there was something deeply endearing in the scene. A sentiment of warmth and nostalgia, of something lost by the tragic pass of time yet still treasured.

The caravans were too far away by then, almost gone. The rain stopped, and the moon appeared in the middle of the sky, sometimes covered by clouds of glowing borders. Its light reflected on every little drop of water laying on the grass, filling the hill with what looked to be thousands of tiny weakened stars glittering in the dark green background. A second sky. A humble one.

And like all good things in life, the song finished, and Gale returned to reality once more. With a heavy sigh, Chardry opened his eyes; remnants of the spell dissipated into a ghostly smoke around them. Both remained a moment in silence, looking at one another while recovering from the relaxing effect of the music. Gale would not dare to make a sound yet, not after such perfect execution.

When the moment lasted too long for Chardry’s own comfort, he arranged once more his hair over his ears, and with devoted care, he lay the instrument on his lap, removed a ring from his little finger, and unsummoned the instrument. It turned into a gust of smoky magic and was absorbed into the ring. Kicking some stones, he broke the useless sound ward around him and looked at Gale once more, still a couple of meters away in front of him. He was waiting for his opinion.

“So?”

“That was… marvellous. I’m speechless.” Gale managed to say. 

Chardry chuckled, “That’s a feat on its own.”

Gale shook his head in fond disapproval, but also he was grateful for that friendly break of the solemnity. The moment had left him more than impressed, truth be told. It was difficult to shake off the sentiment on his own. Especially after the memories he had just recalled minutes ago in the river. “I didn’t know you had such musical skills. And you do not perform mundane music.”

“Those songs… they were my mother’s favourite ones. Over the years, I crafted those images to her desire. She was always wanting to add an extra detail every time I played them. Interpreting them with all the details at once became a memory challenge at some point.”

Both softly chuckled. 

“I need to practice these songs often, so I won't forget them.”

Gale sighed. He still could not remove the sentiment inspired by those melodies. “This place is a sweet sight as well. Your taste is impeccable.” Casually, he walked close to the stone and sat beside Chardry. Neither of them had the intention to leave yet, so they remained in silence, sharing the view, while the gentle nocturnal breeze moved their hair. “I love this time of night. Its timelessness… there’s an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness...”

Chardry said nothing, but by the soft sigh that Gale heard, he was sure the drow was thinking the same. A similar awkwardness had been present between them since the day they shared the Weave.

“Gale...”

He turned his head to find Chardry’s profile, whose eyes were locked far away on the cliff. The moonlight turned his iris redder, or maybe it was a mere effect of his reflective pupils.

“I wanted to apologise… for the other day.” Chardry continued, still avoiding visual contact.

“What for?”

“The… image in the Weave.”

“Were you thinking about that?

Chardry nodded, finding strength to finally look at him, silent.

“Do… do you regret it?” Gale tried to hide the sudden trepidation that those words had raised. 

“I don’t want to cause you… uneasiness. I was not expecting the Weave to share my… mind so openly.” He let another uncomfortable sigh escape from his lips. “And I don't want to complicate things. We already have enough problems.”

“You are not complicating anything. I was surprised, but pleasantly so. Just like I said. Amid this madness we are living, it seems almost out of place to think of a romantic walk. And yet, more now than ever, it's important to recall what makes us human. Well... you know what I mean.”

Chardry chuckled, lowering his face and immediately touching his ears and hair.

“A stolen glance, the sudden heartbeat... sometimes the little things are worth more than kingdoms. They promise things to come.” Gale added.

The last words changed something in Chardry, Gale could easily sense it: a hint of surprise, a considerable amount of uncertainty, and something more; hidden. 

As soon as Chardry recovered himself, he locked his eyes with Gale’s. Another long silence followed. 

“I see. That’s good to know.” Chardry said, moving forward.

Due to the intensity of the moment, Gale believed Chardry was leaning in to kiss him. But he was mistaken. Chardry casually stood up and defused the situation of all its potential. Gale squinted at him, examining his demeanour, and in a fraction of a second, he saw it. He saw what the drow was hiding. It was more than mere doubts. It was plain fear. Fear of  _ him _ .

“Let’s return to the camp. We need to rest. Long day ahead, tomorrow.”

“I follow your lead.” Gale said, as cheerful as he could despite the devastating truth he had just glimpsed.

He walked by Chardry’s side, lost in thought.  _ Fear _ . That was the only emotion he was never surprised to inspire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about the poetry in the text:  
> (*) Sonnet 292 by Francesco Petrarca. [I’ve modified two words of the original work.]
> 
> _Crappy art associated with the chapter [[here](https://lairofsentinel.tumblr.com/post/636085978584563713)]_


End file.
